“You’re right. We will spend today there. With any luck, we’ll break the spell before dinner tonight.” I lean forward, ready to pick her up and fly us to my castle.
Skye lets out a little squeak and hops backward. “I need to get dressed.”
“You’re wearing your coat. I assumed you were ready to go.” I frown down at her. “Wait—are those the same shoes you had on in the scene from the book?” They appear so, all covered in fluffy pink feathers that match no bird I’ve ever seen.
Skye’s cheeks flush pink, her rosebud mouth caught in a little O of surprise.
Does that mean the little witch is wearing nothing but that pink negligee under her coat? Goddess, her outfit this morning was enough to drive a man to distraction, and the way she smiled up at me, her eyes full of promise. My cocks stir at the memory of her glorious breasts barely contained by those tiny scraps of fabric, my leather pants becoming suddenly way too tight. My tail whips up and forward to cover the telltale bulge, the cat making a mew of distress at losing her play toy.
“Yes, get dressed,” I bark. “I will do the same.” Reaching into my invisible storage pocket, I send a pulse of magic into the space, asking for what I want.
Instead of leaving, Skye steps closer, her eyes latched onto the location where my arm disappears. “That’s amazing. What is it?”
“It’s a magical mini-realm only I can access.” A spurt of pride goes through me. “I created it when I was only fifty years old, barely out of the nursery.”
Those cornflower eyes meet mine. “How old are you?”
“Three hundred and seventy-three years.”
Surprised awe explodes across her face, like a fireworkbursting with light, her voice going breathy. “That old?”
“I’ll have you know I’m a dragon in my prime.” My wings rustle, my shoulders going back. My inner fire leaps within my chest, burning hot and ready. I’m exactly of an age for mating. Only no dragons ever sparked my mate bond, not that they’d accept one such as me, my shifting magic shattered inside me like a cracked mirror.
Fabric flies into my hand, and I pull out a shirt. Holding it up in front of me, I send another pulse of magic through it, and it opens like a flower, molding to my chest and arms, the cloth petals wrapping around my back and sealing together without disturbing my wings.
“I wondered how you got into shirts! Or pants, with your tail.” The little witch flutters her hand toward said appendage. “That is so cool.”
I grunt. None of this would be necessary if I could shift into a man. But since I’m stuck in my weredragon form, and people on Earth have strange ideas about nudity, I’m forced to purchase magical clothes to accommodate my wings and tail.
Princess Buttercup meows, and Skye laughs. “Yes, I know you like his tail. I do, too.”
“What?” I growl, surprised at her words. Why would she like my tail?
“Nothing!” she squeaks and turns away, hurrying down the hallway. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
I stare down at the cat, who watches me with fascination as I retrieve a pair of boots from my storage pocket and pull them on. Once done, I twitch the tip of my tail again, letting her play.
The little hunter hunkers low to the ground and inches forward, her triangular ears swiveling forward, searching for sound. With her coloration, she’d be difficult to see in a forest of autumn leaves, and it’s amusing to watch her act as if the hallway provides her any such camouflage.
Everything I can see in this small home is bright colors. One doorway shows a daffodil-yellow kitchen, while the other shows a fuchsia living room with an overstuffed couch that looks softer than any piece of furniture I own.
It’s as if everything Skye touches becomes spring flowers, as pretty and bright and fresh as the woman herself.
She returns, her coat hanging open, showing the slacks and sweater she wears underneath. “I’m ready.”
The cat straightens from her play and meows up at the witch.
“No, I’m not going to bother him with that.”
“With what?” I ask.
“It’s nothing.” She begins buttoning her coat.
With a snort, Princess Buttercup darts into the kitchen and leaps onto the counter to headbutt a wooden box.
“Is she hungry?” I ask. “You may take the time to feed her.”
The cat meows again and points a paw at the witch.
